Merlin's Booke (13 page)

“I
loved
the dragon.”

The silence behind him was so loud that at last Artos turned around. The old man had fallen onto his side and lay still. Artos felt something warm on his cheeks and realized they were tears. He ran to Linn and knelt down, pulling the old man onto his lap. As he cradled him, Linn opened his eyes.

“Did you bring me any stew?” he asked.

“I …” the tears were falling unchecked now. “I brought you seed cakes.”

“I like seed cakes,” Linn said. “But couldn't you get any stew from Old Garlic?”

Artos felt his mouth drop open. “How did you know about her?”

The old man smiled, showing terrible teeth. He whispered: “I am the Great Riddler. I am the Master of Wisdom. I am the Word and I am the Light. I Was and Am and Will Be.” He hesitated. “I am the Dragon.”

Artos smiled back and then carefully stood with the old man in his arms. He was amazed at how frail Linn was. His bones, Artos thought, must be as hollow as the wing bones of a bird.

There was a door in the cave wall and Linn signaled him toward it. Carrying the old apothecary through the doorway, Artos marveled at the runes carved in the lintel. Past the door was a warren of hallways and rooms. From somewhere ahead he heard the chanting of many men.

Artos looked down at the old man and whispered to him. “Yes. I understand. You
are
the dragon, indeed. And I am the dragon's boy. But I will not let you die just yet. I have not finished getting my wisdom.”

Smiling broadly, the old man turned toward him like a baby rooting at its mother's breast, found the seed cakes, ate one of them and then, with a gesture both imperious and fond, stuffed the other in Artos' mouth.

So in the greatest church of London (whether it were Paul's or not the French book maketh no mention) all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass were done, there was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four square, like unto a marble stone; and in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword naked by the point, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that saiden thus:—
WHOSO PULLETH OUT THIS SWORD OF THIS STONE AND ANVIL, IS RIGHTWISE KING BORN OF ALL ENGLAND.

—Le Morte D'Arthur

by Sir Thomas Malory

“W
OULD YOU BELIEVE A
sword in a stone, my liege?” the old necromancer asked. “I dreamed of one last night. Stone white as whey with a sword stuck in the top like a knife through butter. It means something. My dreams always mean something. Do you believe that stone and that sword, my lord?”

The man on the carved wooden throne sighed heavily, his breath causing the hairs of his mustache to flap. “Merlinnus, I have no time to believe in a sword in a stone. Or on a stone. Or under a stone. I'm just too damnably tired for believing today. And you
always
have dreams.”

“This dream is different, my liege.”

“They're always different. But I've just spent half a morning pacifying two quarreling
dux bellorum.
Or is it
bellori?”

“Belli,”
muttered the mage, shaking his head.

“Whatever. And sorting out five counterclaims from my chief cook and his mistresses. He should stick to his kitchen. His affairs are a mess. And awarding grain to a lady whose miller maliciously killed her cat. Did you know, Merlinnus, that we actually have a law about cat killing that levies a fine of the amount of grain that will cover the dead cat completely when it is held up by the tip of its tail and its nose touches the ground? It took over a peck of grain.” He sighed again.

“A large cat, my lord,” mumbled the mage.

“A
very
large cat indeed,” agreed the king, letting his head sink into his hands. “And a
very
large lady. With a lot of
very
large and important lands. Now what in Mithras' name do I want a sword and a stone for when I have to deal with all that?”

“In
Christ's
name, my lord.
Christ's
name. Remember, we are Christians now.” The mage held up a gnarled forefinger. “And it is a sword
in
a stone.”

“You
are the Christian,” the king said. “
I
still drink bull's blood with my men. It makes them happy, though the taste of it is somewhat less than good claret.” He laughed mirthlessly. “And yet I wonder how good a Christian you are, Merlinnus, when you still insist on talking to trees. Oh, there are those who have seen you walking in your wood and talking, always talking, even though there is no one there. Once a Druid, always a Druid, so Sir Kai says.”

“Kai is a fool,” answered the old man, crossing himself quickly as if marking the points of the body punctuated his thought.

“Kai is a fool, indeed, but even fools have ears and eyes. Go away, Merlinnus, and do not trouble me with this sword on a stone. I have more important things to deal with.” He made several dismissing movements with his left hand while summoning the next petitioner with his right. The petitioner, a young woman with a saucy smile and a bodice bouncing with promises, moved forward. The king smiled back.

Merlinnus left and went outside, walking with more care than absolutely necessary, to the grove beyond the castle walls where his favorite oak grew. He addressed it rather informally, they being of a long acquaintance.

“Salve, amice frondifer,
greetings, friend leaf bearer. What am I to do with that boy? When I picked him out it was because the blood of a strong-minded and lusty king ran in his veins, though on the sinister side. Should I then have expected gratitude and imagination to accompany such a heritage? Ah, but unfortunately I did. My brains must be rotting away with age. Tell me,
e glande nate,
sprout of an acorn, do I ask too much? Vision! That's what is missing, is it not?”

A rustle of leaves, as if a tiny wind puzzled through the grove, was his only answer.

Merlinnus sat down at the foot of the tree and rubbed his back against the bark, easing an itch that had been there since breakfast. He tucked the skirt of his woolen robe between his legs and stared at his feet. He still favored the Roman summer sandals, even into late fall, because closed boots tended to make the skin crackle between his toes like old parchment. And besides, in the heavy boots, his feet sweated and stank. But he always felt cold now, winter and summer. So he wore a woolen robe year-round.

“Did I address him incorrectly, do you think? These new kings are such sticklers for etiquette. An old man like me finds that stuff boring. Such a waste of time, and time is the one commodity I have so little of.” He rubbed a finger alongside his nose.

“I thought to pique his interest, to get him wondering about a sword that is stuck in a stone like a knife in a slab of fresh beef. A bit of legerdemain, that, and I'm rather proud of it actually. You see, it wasn't
just
a dream. I've done it up in my tower room. Anyone with a bit of knowledge can read the old Latin building manuals and construct a ring of stones. Building the baths under the castle was harder work. But that sword in the stone—yes, I'm rather proud of it. And what that young king has got to realize is that he needs to do something more than rule on cases of quarreling dukes and petty mistresses and grasping rich widows. He has to …” stopping for a minute to listen to the wind again through trees, Merlinnus shook his head and went on. “He has to fire up these silly tribes, give them something magical to rally them. I don't mean him to be just another petty chieftain. Oh, no. He's to be my greatest creation, that boy.” He rubbed his nose again. “My last creation, I'm afraid. If this one doesn't work out, what am I to do?”

The wind, now stronger, soughed through the trees.

“I was given just thirty-three years to bind this kingdom, you know. That's the charge, the geas laid on me: thirty-three years to bind it
per crucem et quercum,
by cross and by oak. And this, alas, is the last year.”

A cuckoo called down from the limb over his head.

“The first one I tried was that idiot Uther. Why, his head was more wood than thine.” The old man chuckled to himself. “And then there were those twins from the Hebrides who enjoyed games so much. Then that witch, Morgana. She made a pretty mess of things. I even considered—at her prompting—her strange, dark little son. Or was he her nephew? I forget which. When one has been a lifelong celibate as I, one tends to dismiss such frequent and casual couplings and their messy aftermaths as unimportant. But that boy had a sly, foxy look about him. Nothing would follow him but a pack of dogs. And then I found this one right under my nose. In some ways he's the dullest of the lot, and yet in a king dullness can be a virtue.
If
the crown is secure.”

A nut fell on his head, tumbled down his chest, and landed in his lap. It was a walnut, which was indeed strange since he was sitting beneath an oak. Expecting magic, the mage looked up. There was a little red squirrel staring down at him. Merlinnus cracked the nut between two stones, extracted the meat, and held up half to the squirrel.

“Walnuts from acorn trees,” he said. As soon as the squirrel had snatched away its half of the nut meat, the old man drifted off into a dream-filled sleep.

“Wake up, wake up, old one.” It was the shaking, not the sentence, that woke him. He opened his eyes. A film of sleep lent a soft focus to his vision. The person standing over him seemed haloed in mist.

“Are you all right, grandfather?” The voice was soft, too.

Merlinnus sat up. He was, he guessed, too old to be sleeping out of doors. The ground cold had seeped into his bones. Like an old tree, his sap ran sluggishly. But being caught out by a youngster made him grumpy. “Why shouldn't I be all right?” he answered, more gruffly than he meant.

“You are so thin, grandfather, and you sleep so silently. I feared you dead. One should not die in a sacred grove. It offends the Goddess.”

“Are you then a worshipper of the White One?” he asked, carefully watching the stranger's hands. No true worshipper would answer that question in a straightforward manner, but would instead signal the dark secret with an inconspicuous semaphore. But all that the fingers signed were concern for him. Forefinger, fool's finger, physic's finger, ear finger were silent of secrets. Merlinnus sighed and struggled to sit upright.

The stranger put a hand under his arm and back and gently eased him into a comfortable position. Once up, Merlinnus took a better look. The stranger was a boy with that soft lambent cheek not yet coarsened by a beard. His eyes were the clear blue of speedwells. The eyebrows were dark swallow wings, sweeping high and back toward luxuriant and surprisingly gold hair caught under a dark cap. He was dressed in homespun, but neat and clean. His hands, clasped before him, were small and well formed.

Sensing the mage's inspection, the boy spoke. “I have come in the hopes of becoming a page at court.”

Catamite!
Merlinnus thought but did not speak it aloud. The Romans had much to answer for. It was not all roadways and baths.

But, as if anticipating the old man's rising disgust, the boy added, “I wish to learn the sword and lance, and I have sworn myself to purity till I be pledged.”

Merlinnus' mouth screwed about a bit but at last settled into a passable smile. Perhaps he could find some use for the boy. A wedge properly placed had been known to split a mighty tree. And he had so little time. “What is your name, boy?”

“I am called …” there was a hesitation, scarcely noticeable. “Gawen.”

Merlin's smiled broadened. “Ah, but we have already a great knight by a similar name. He is praised as one of the king's Three Fearless Men.”

“Fearless in bed, certainly,” the boy answered. “The hollow man.” Then, as if to soften his words, he added, “Or so it is said where I come from.”

So, Merlinnus thought, there may be more to this than a child come to court. Aloud, he said, “And where
do
you come from?”

The boy looked down and smoothed the homespun where it lay against his thighs. “The coast.”

Refusing to comment that the coast was many miles long both north and south, Merlinnus said sharply, “Do not condemn a man with another's words. And do not praise him that way, either.”

The boy did not answer.

“Purity in tongue must proceed purity in body,” the mage added for the boy's silence annoyed him. “That is my first lesson to you.”

A small sulky voice answered him. “I am too old for lessons.”

“None of us is too old,” said Merlinnus, wondering why he felt so compelled to go on and on. Then, as if to soften his criticism, he added, “Even I learned something today.”

“And that is …?”

“It has to do with the Matter of Britain,” the mage said, “and is therefore beyond you.”

“Why beyond me?”

“Give me your hand.” He held his own out, crabbed with age.

Gawen reluctantly put his small hand forward, and the mage ran a finger across the palm, slicing the lifeline where it forked early.

“I see you are no stranger to work. The calluses tell me that. But what work it is I do not know.”

Gawen withdrew his hand and smiled brightly, his mouth wide, mobile, telling of obvious relief.

Merlinnus wondered what other secrets the hand might have told him could he have read palms as easily as a village herb wife. Then, shaking his head, he stood.

“Come. Before I bring you into court, let us go and wash ourselves in the river.”

The boy's eyes brightened.
“You
can bring me to court?”

With more pride than he felt and more hope than he had any right to feel, Merlinnus smiled.” Of course, my son. After all, I am the High King's mage.”